The Bannerman Effect (The Bannerman Series) (9 page)
Read The Bannerman Effect (The Bannerman Series) Online
Authors: John R. Maxim
“Good evening, Elena.” An oily voice. In Spanish. Or-tirez? No, not possible.
“Who is this, please?”
“You forget old friends so soon, dear lady?”
“Ortirez.” She spoke the name drippingly. “Where are you?”
“At my house,” he said, his manner cheerful, “enjoying a fine lunch on this beautiful day.”
She could hear birds in the background. And children. “What do you want, Colonel?”
“Ah, but I am now a general. And I live in a grand house. Indeed, it was once your house, Elena.”
“You are scum, Ortirez.” This man a general. The uniform must have cost him millions.
He laughed aloud. “Such brave words. But from such a distance.”
“Then come to Zurich and I will say them to your pig face.”
“Ah, but I am there in spirit, Elena. This very day I have made you a present of the daughter of Detective Lesko.”
trafficantes,
certainly. But Ortirez? He was a fool and a brute, not given to poetic methods of killing. He would have poured gasoline on the girl and watched her dance.
“Did you hear what I said, great lady?”
”I heard it.”
“Do I hear the laughter of children, Ortirez?” she asked calmly.
The line went silent. He had covered his mouthpiece.
“Ortirez, do you know what a perpetual trust is?”
He said nothing. Even his silence, she thought, sounded stupid.
“It is a fund of money that carries out one's wishes even after death. This fund will contain two million Swiss francs. Do you know how much that is in pesos, Ortirez?”
“Tell me about your fund,” he said, attempting scorn, “and I will laugh at you.”
“Oh, the bounty will not be on your life, Ortirez. That would be merciful.”
He waited.
But he was still not ready for them. No word from Carla or Russo. Those coming from Westport would not arrive for three hours at best. Until they were in place, he could not leave Susan's side. He hurried to the washroom where he freshened himself, then to a vending machine where he bought two cups of coffee in plastic containers. He settled in to wait.
It was not yet sunrise when the killers came.
Ray and Caroline—he in his cashmere topcoat, hat of Irish tweed, his expression pained, compassionate, she in a silver fox, eyes wide, questioning, caring. In Ray's hands, a thermos of coffee and a box lunch with the logo of Zurich's Dolder Grand Hotel on it. A nice touch, he thought bitterly. He put it aside. Then he hugged them.
He declined their offer, several times repeated, of croissant sandwiches and good Swiss coffee to replace the metallic brew he'd taken from the machine. It was vile but it was coffee. And it contained no chemicals that might, at the very least, have caused him to sleep.
For three hours they sat or paced, making small talk, sharing words of encouragement. Caroline Bass busied herself gently brushing the tangles out of Susan's hair, running a piece of ice over her parched and swollen lips. Bannerman stood by the bed, watching her every move, doing his best not to seem unduly suspicious. They were cool. He had to give them that. And patient. They also seemed thoroughly genuine. In their eyes, their actions, he could see nothing but kindness. No unspoken signals flashed between them. None of those searching looks that often follow a lie. There were moments in which he almost began to doubt that they were anything other than what they seemed. Perhaps it was his own fatigue, his own guilt, that led him to embrace suspicions that might not outlast a good night's sleep. Adding to the doubt was the fact that he had never heard of them. A folksy husband and wife hit team of late middle-age seemed likely to have been the subject of an anecdote or two over the years. On the other hand, the only Americans he knew much about were those who had worked Europe and the Middle East. And, in addition, Ray and Caroline gave no sign of having heard of him either. Perhaps that, more than anything, was at the root of his doubts. He could not imagine a team being sent after someone who touched his life without at least being cautioned that he wasn't quite what he seemed to be. It was a conceit, he realized, but a reasonable one.
But then Helge came into the room and his doubts faded. She nodded politely and handed him two slips of message paper. The first was from Molly Farrell. Their flight had landed. She was awaiting instructions. Bannerman scribbled a reply. The second was from Helge. It said, /
have listened.
These are the voices from the telephone.
By the end of the second hour, Bannerman's bladder began to ache. In his mind he saw the car that should now be en route from the airport at Zurich after first securing weapons from a local source. He willed it to hurry. A nurse entered the room carrying towels and a tray of bathing materials. Caroline stood up. She'd been a hospital volunteer back home, she said. If the men would like to stretch theirlegs, she would bathe Susan herself. It would help her to feel useful. Bannerman thanked her but said it could wait. The third hour passed.
“You take your time,” Ray smiled and nodded. “We'll be right here with Susan.”
The men's toilet was just off the main lobby. On his way to it he saw the woman who coughed. She was seated just inside the main entrance, reading a magazine. Bannerman stopped to relieve himself. He took his time washing his hands. Emerging, he saw that Ray was now in the corridor outside the intensive care unit. Bannerman knew what was being done to Susan. He tried to block it from his mind. He stretched and yawned, then turned his back on Caroline's sentry and strolled toward the entrance where he stopped, pretending to watch the passing traffic, within a few feet of Molly Farrell.
“You got my message?” he asked.
”Uh-huh.” She did not look up. “Who's Helge?”
”A new friend. Who's outside?”
“Billy's watching the front. Carla and Russo are covering the back and side.”
“How long have they been there?”
“Maybe two hours.”
“It's nice someone told me.”
“Count your blessings,” she said through stilled lips. “Lesko and three others are down by the railroad station.”
“Three others? What others?”
“More new friends,” Molly Farrell said simply. “They're keeping Lesko away. You have ten minutes tops. Don't push it.”
He had less than five. Lesko had agreed to ten minutes while Molly scouted the hospital area. It seemed only prudent but the time passed too slowly and he had come too far. His daughter was in there. Shaking off Elena's hand, he opened the door of her Mercedes and began pounding up the hill in the direction indicated by hospital signs. It was a one-way street. The car could not follow. She ran after him on foot. Her two cousins in a second car sped off to intercept him by a different route.
At the hospital's front desk, Bannerman purchased a copy of the
Herald Tribune
and returned at a measured pace to the intensive care unit. By the time he arrived, Ray and Caroline were slipping into their coats.
”I cleaned up her face a bit,” Caroline told Paul. “Gave her a little of my Shalimar behind the ear.”
“She'd appreciate that,” he said. “Are you leaving?”
“Wouldn't think of it,” Ray shook his head. “Me and Caroline just thought we'd get a breath of air before we settle in for the duration.”
“Good idea,” he forced a smile. “Listen ... I don't know how to thank you for..”
“Oh, hush.” Caroline kissed his cheek. He kissed her in retum.
Bannerman listened as their footsteps receded down the corridor. He walked to a supply cabinet where he found a box of plastic gloves. Slipping one over his right hand, he stepped quickly to Susan's bed and drew the curtains fully. Bracing himself, he reached under the sheet that covered her and he parted her legs. He began probing.
What he should have done, what he'd intended to do, was withdraw his hand and leave the room at once. To follow the killers, to cut off their retreat. But Susan had moaned. She'd reacted. He wanted to touch her again. To
watch her
eyes this time, to see her chest rise and fall. His fingers probed once more.
“Come on, Susan,” he whispered. “Come on.”
She gasped. A sucking in of air. The knee came up higher. “Good girl. That's it. Come on. Come on back . . .” “What the . . .” A voice behind him. “You creep. You fucking creep.” Bannerman went rigid as Lesko's fist slammed into his kidney.
-7-
His face was burning as he staggered from the room, the glove and suppository still gripped tightly in his fist. His hurts ran deeper than Lesko's blows. He was furious with himself.
Stupid. Unprofessional. Humiliating.
He knew how it must have looked to her father. Banner-man didn't blame him. The man wanted to kill him. He might have, had not that woman rushed into the room just behind him. One of the mystery friends. It was she who'd kept her head. She'd tried to stop Lesko. To pull him off. And failing that, she'd calmly stripped off her stout leather boot and swung it against the side of Lesko's head.
In the corridor, Bannerman gathered himself as two nurses and a security guard rushed to the source of the shouted curses and crashing fumiture. The pain was easing as he walked toward the hospital exit. But a crushing sadness had come in its place.
The humiliation, he knew, would pass. Soon enough, Lesko would learn about the suppository. He would be forced to accept that what he saw was not a sick act of manual rape but an attempt to save his daughter's life. But, so could he see the other side of that coin. That Bannerman had used her as bait. And he would want to kill him for that, just as Bannerman would in his place.
The two killers, husband and wife, had intended to leave by the front entrance. Taking their time. Strolling away up toward the Davos shopping promenade where they had left their car rather than risk having it trapped in the hospital lot.
“You get a gold star for your timing, darlin’,” he said, reaching the first landing. “Right now, I'd say we got one too many fellers named Ray around here.
”
